


The World Turned Upside Down

by GloriaMundi



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: C17, Historical, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-13
Updated: 2004-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was wrong: the world had turned upside down, as if his life were some rollicking comedy being played out in front of the common crowd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Turned Upside Down

Here, high up above the cloud-dappled ocean, with the noises of the Fort a meaningless babble behind them, the new language that he was discovering seemed less important to Norrington.

It was not a language that anyone around him understood: certainly not one that they spoke. It was not a language that he had ever learnt in the schoolroom, either. He smiled, remembering his governess, Miss Grey, and her earnest repetition of each simple French phrase. My mother likes apples. I live in Portsmouth. The coin is on the table.

But the coin was not on the table. (Brief nightmare shudder of fire and blood and bone.) Nothing was as it should be any more. Everything was wrong: the world had turned upside down, as if his life were some rollicking comedy being played out in front of the common crowd.

Was it comic, that the woman he had hoped to marry was walking the seaward battlement of Fort Charles with him -- keeping him always between herself and the parapet -- insisting on his attendance at her wedding two days hence?

"Commodore?"

He became aware that Elizabeth had asked him a question: and that he was smiling like a fool at some fond memory, and had not heard a word she'd said.

"James," she said more gently, "is something wrong?"

Everything is wrong, he wanted to say. Everything has flown up in the air like the pieces of a game, and if there is a place for me to fall back into, I don't know where it is.

But this was Elizabeth, after all. Perhaps she would understand.

"I feel as though all of the ... the business with the curse ... was a test." He glanced at her, and back at the ocean below. "A test of myself and my men -- and of you, Elizabeth, and your father, and of -- and of Mr Turner."

He met her eyes again, and saw that he had not been wrong. Elizabeth's smile was full of affection and understanding. A fine woman, indeed: wasted on ...

He suppressed that thought brutally, not for the first time.

"The officers, and the men, have come through the test with flying colours," he said. "Their courage and fortitude are a credit to the Navy, and to the Crown. It's as though they are made of different stuff to myself." This was the difficult admission. His mouth was clumsy with the words, stammering a little to get them out. "As though their f-fibre is sturdier, their backbone more --"

"James!" said Elizabeth indignantly, turning to him.

"I know it does not reflect well --"

"I will not listen to this ... this self-deprecation for another moment!" Elizabeth took his hands in her own -- a bold gesture, out here in the sunlight in plain view of the sentries and the officer of the watch -- and he marvelled, in a quiet corner of his mind, at how little it hurt to feel her touch.

"You are a fine man," said Elizabeth gravely. "A brave and noble-spirited man. There are few who are your match for valour or greatness of heart."

You might say the same of a well-trained mount, thought Norrington. He kept his face impassive.

"And it is your sensibility that endears you to me, and always will," she continued. "Lieutenant Gillette, for example, could never aspire to be the man you already are. And you will become a greater man yet."

The curl of Elizabeth's lip was a precise indicator of her opinion of Gillette.

"Miss Swann," said Norrington, speaking almost automatically: Miss Grey had schooled him in good manners, too. "The high regard in which you hold me must be tempered by my own humility, else I would surely become insufferable company." The stilted words were a sort of refuge: and these, at least, she would understand.

"Your company could never be insufferable, James!" Elizabeth assured him, laughing a little. Her smile, as usual, brought forth his own. In Elizabeth's company it was easy to forget, if only for a short while, what he had lost: the emptiness that surrounded him now, as though he had leapt and was still falling. She valued his sensibility. Surely, if he could only find the correct words, she would understand how he felt, instead of misconstruing his distress.

Norrington looked out across the broad, sunlit ocean. There was a sail in the distance: a Spanish merchant vessel, perhaps, bound for the new colonies in the Bay of Mexico. Once, the thought of those colonies had fired him with enthusiasm and ambition: the same fire that had brought him from Portsmouth to Port Royal, from the heart of Empire to this exotic outpost.

In Elizabeth's company he was almost certain that he would feel that fire again. He drew breath to tell her so, to repay the compliment she had made him: and a church bell chimed the hour.

Elizabeth gasped. "I must go. There's so much ... Commodore -- James -- please say that you'll be there? It would mean a great deal to me. And to Will."

There was sudden, unexpected, intensity in her voice.

"I hope never to disappoint you, Miss Swann," said Norrington. "And I would certainly not wish to miss an event so momentous as your wedding."

He did not mention Will Turner, but Elizabeth smiled at him anyway, before she went hurrying down the steps into the Fort to reclaim her maid.

The ocean was still there, wide and shining and silvery. The Spanish merchantman -- or perhaps Portuguese -- had changed course. Norrington watched her sail west for a long time, until he had mastered his despair once more.

* * *

It was the day before the wedding. Norrington had ordered his dress uniform brushed and neatened, and he had permitted the men to volunteer for the honour guard that would line the square outside St Peter's Church. Now he was reviewing the list, amending the duty roster to ensure that all those who wished to be present could be transferred from their other duties.

"Commodore?"

He kept the door of his office open while he was within, and Lieutenant Groves stood there now. Norrington could read, in the set of his shoulders and the line of his mouth, a lingering hurt at the abruptness with which he had refused Groves' last invitation to dine with the officers in the gunroom.

"Yes?"

"You have a visitor, sir. Mr Turner is here to see you."

He kept his voice light and his smile in place. Whatever Groves thought he knew about Norrington and Elizabeth -- and sailors were worse gossips than old wives -- he would not give his men the satisfaction of exposing his feelings. "Show him in, Lieutenant."

"Commodore. I hope I find you well."

Will Turner was well-spoken and polite: had always been so, even as a child. Lately Norrington had begun to think of him as a man, rather than as an overgrown version of the boy they'd pulled from the sea so long ago. No child could have made the beautiful sword that hung in its scabbard, now, from a peg by the door.

"Perfectly well, thank you. Please be seated." Norrington gestured at the low chair to one side of his desk, and Will nodded his thanks and sat down. He did not meet Norrington's eyes.

"Miss Swann assures me that organising a wedding is a prodigious affair," said Norrington. "Yet I presume you would not have come here today if your business could wait until ... until a later date."

"There is ... some difficulty with the guest list," said Will carefully. He was no longer as self-effacing as when he'd been a mere apprentice. Norrington wondered if it was defiance, or merely confidence, that made Will look back at him as if they were equals.

"A difficulty?" said Norrington. "I don't see how I can be of help. Unless I am the difficulty?" Surely Elizabeth would have come herself, if that were the case. She would not have changed her mind since ...

Yet she had not always been honest with him.

"No, sir, it's not that," Will said hastily. "It's just ... One of the guests has, how shall I put this ... has had some difficulties with the law recently, and wishes, ah, to be ... to be ... "

All at once Norrington knew what Will Turner was trying to tell him, and darkness, fire, gold, blood, bone rushed through his mind again, just as they did every night. He wanted to curse. He wanted to take Will Turner's damned sword and --

His voice sounded peculiar, inhuman, but at least his words were formal. "You wish to enquire as to whether a notorious pirate might show his face in Port Royal, on the occasion of your wedding, without fear of retribution."

Will said nothing, and Norrington's voice sharpened. "Is that the case, Mr Turner? Is that your business here today?"

"Yes. Yes, it is. Jack would --"

Norrington held up his hand. "I do not wish to hear the details. The man you speak of is a condemned criminal."

"And a good --" Will began heatedly.

"I know," said Norrington, trying not to sigh. "But the law makes no such distinction. If -- if _Captain Jack Sparrow_ makes an appearance in Port Royal, in spite of the sentence of death passed on him -- a sentence," Norrington added pointedly, "that he escaped only through the actions of one who, save for the Governor's pardon, would have been condemned to hang beside him -- then my duty is clear. Any escaped convict who flaunted his freedom in such a way, who kissed his hand to law and order by the flagrancy of his presence, would deserve no further delay in the execution of his sentence. My oath to the Crown would require me to see such a man hanged."

Will had flinched when Norrington reminded him of his own reprieve. Clearly no longer in awe of the Commodore -- but after all, who was marrying Miss Swann? -- he had opened his mouth more than once to interrupt. Now he said, coldly, "I understand, sir."

Norrington doubted it. There had been no flicker of comprehension when he had stressed the pirate's name, or spoken of flagrant display and open defiance. Were Jack Sparrow to slip in softly and silently, under cover of night, to make his compliments to the bride and groom, Norrington might look the other way. But Will, it seemed, had not understood that: and to explain it further would be treason.

"I am sorry to have troubled you, sir," said Will Turner, standing.

"I am sorry, too," said Norrington, with all the sincerity he could muster. He knew from Will's face that it was not enough. He stood as well, holding out his hand, but Will's handshake was as brief and impersonal as etiquette allowed, and his expression was impassive.

Left alone, Norrington sighed. He had handled it badly. The business of the curse had cast Norrington adrift, but it had changed Will Turner for the better. Norrington had considered inviting the boy -- the young man, he corrected himself -- to practice sword-play with him: Turner had shown some aptitude for that, and his new-found assurance might, thought Norrington, have balanced the awe in which he had held the Commodore. Perhaps, one day, they might even talk together as equals. But this afternoon's conversation had postponed that day. Will Turner had not understood what Norrington was offering. Indeed, as far as Will was concerned, Norrington had denied Will and Elizabeth the presence at their wedding of a man who, criminal or not, they both seemed to hold in the highest affection

Norrington had failed his men, by forfeiting their lives. He had failed the Navy, too, by losing the _Interceptor_: and the Crown, by looking the other way while a condemned criminal fled from justice. And now he had failed two of the people whom he had hoped to call friends.

His head ached, and the list of names before him blurred. Yet duty was all he had left, and so he took a fresh sheet of paper and began to draft the wedding-day roster afresh.

* * *

At dawn, Elizabeth and Will's wedding-day had been overcast and chilly, but by noon the clouds had retreated to the horizon. Norrington, in his dress uniform, had inspected the honour guard, all neat and polished and proud. The fine sword that Will Turner had made for him hung scabbarded at his side, though he did not feel worthy of it this afternoon.

He was careful to arrive in good time, before most of the other guests, and he took his place near the front of the church. There were fewer people on the groom's side, and he knew them all: Mr Brown, mercifully sober, and his dour housekeeper; Mr Chappell from the armoury; two young women, giggling together, who Norrington recognised as maids from the Governor's residence; the schoolmaster, Mr White, who had taught Will his letters; Mrs White, a red-head with a notorious temper.

Behind him, Norrington could hear the other wedding guests arriving. He bowed his head, fighting the temptation to turn around and examine each face. It helped that it was gloomy inside the church: the clouds must be gathering again. He hoped the rain would hold off, for Elizabeth's sake.

He hoped that Will had understood him, despite everything.

Someone had lent, or given, Will a new suit of clothes. He looked young and nervous. By now, Norrington realised, all the guests must be present. No one had burst into flames -- he smiled to himself at the whimsical thought -- or been struck by lightning at the church door. Therefore, it was clear that no one as wicked and black-hearted as Sparrow could be present, after all. Perhaps he had already been and gone. Perhaps Will had warned him away.

Here came the bride, on the Governor's arm. Her smile made Norrington's vision blur.

* * *

Mrs White reminded Norrington of a badly-trained hunting dog. She had cornered him for the second time and was talking to him about her brother, who hoped to pass as Lieutenant soon.

"... And I trust, Commodore, that I may call upon you to offer him a captaincy as soon as an appropriate command becomes available?"

The woman's knowledge of Naval procedure was damningly inaccurate: if she had it from her brother, then Norrington would not trust him with a desk, much less an entire ship. She was alarmingly tenacious, though, and he began to fear that he would spend the entire evening making excuses to her for the failure of His Majesty's Navy to heap rewards upon her undeserving relative.

He was explaining, yet again, the difference between a new lieutenant such as her brother and the calibre of man who would be given a fighting command. "And even then, 'captain' would be only a courtesy title, for in order to be promoted --"

"But surely, Commodore Norrington, every ship must have a captain?"

The back of his neck was prickling, not for the first time, as though he were being watched. As though someone was staring at him. And there was something indefinable, something else he didn't have words for: not quite a smell, nor a sound, but ...

"Commodore? Would you not agree?"

Norrington sighed inwardly. He could stand unmoving for hours, like any sailor who had stood watch as a green cadet, yet now he shuffled his feet as if to ease an ache in his back. It was no good. He could not reverse their positions, and anyway it would be uncivil of him to stare past Mrs White as she interrogated him.

"Naturally," he said, "every ship must have her commander. Yet a commander, an acting commander, need not be a captain."

"Acting?" said Mrs White, eyebrows raised. "You mean that it is all a pretence?"

Outside, it had begun to rain. The servants were closing the windows, and in the glass Norrington could see, reflected, the people behind him. Will Turner stood by the door, instantly recognisable in his pale new clothes, talking animatedly to a shorter man in red. Norrington could see the man's back: then he began to turn away from Will.

The way he moved ...

The window closed, and the glass was no longer at the angle to show Norrington what was happening by the door. Norrington felt as though he had been cleft in two. One part of him stood, sipping imported wine and trying to explain to Mrs White the difference between a commander and a captain: the other -- the greater -- part of him crackled with tension and curiosity, and the anticipation of conflict.

And yet, while he stood thus, he could remain ignorant: and while ignorance was no defence, it was a delay.

"Madam," said Mr White, arriving at his wife's side as though propelled by some external force, "will you come with me to pay your respects to the bride? Commodore, I do beg your pardon: but Mrs White has been hoping to be introduced to Miss -- I do beg your pardon, to Mrs Turner -- and the bride has especially asked to meet her."

"I understand perfectly," said Norrington, suppressing the relief he felt at being rid of her conversation. "Madam, I hope to be of service to your brother when the opportunity arises. It has been a pleasure."

Lies, all lies. Lies and pretence. Norrington gulped at his wine. Too sweet.

"Commodore," said Will Turner's voice, polite as ever, from his left. "May I introduce a particular friend of mine? Mr Byrd has been hoping to make your acquaintance."

Mr Byrd's coat was of dark red silk brocade, elaborately figured: his shirt was fine linen and lace: his wig was freshly powdered, and his beard trimmed and combed like a Spaniard's. He wore an earring in his left ear, a foppish touch: a black pearl set in silver.

Norrington stared.

"He has overcome considerable tr-- considerable difficulties to be here on our wedding day," Will went on. He was, Norrington saw, trying not to smirk.

Norrington opened his mouth, and Mr Byrd said, "Now, Commodore, let's not be having any unfortunate misunderstandings to cast a shadow over our first meeting."

Had he stressed the word 'first'? Very probably.

Norrington smiled, and nodded. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Byrd," he said, reaching out to shake the other man's hand.

Mr Byrd's dark eyes flickered down to Norrington's lace cuffs, and then back up to his face. Gingerly, he took the Commodore's hand.

Norrington tightened his grip, and the corner of his mouth twitched as he felt the other try to pull free. Mr Byrd's palm was leathery, as if he had worked hard at some time in his life. His cuffs were even lacier than the Commodore's, and they covered his hands to the knuckles. His fingers were tanned and scarred, and freshly-scrubbed, and his skin felt hot.

Norrington released his captive, and Mr Byrd stepped back, regaining his composure far too quickly.

"You have business here in Port Royal, sir?"

"I deal in shipping," said Mr Byrd. There was a brief, startling flash of gold when he smiled. "But on this occasion I'm here entirely for pleasurable purposes."

"I am happy to hear it," said Norrington, smiling. He was surprised to realise that he was telling the truth.

"My wife will be overjoyed that you've been able to join us, Mr Byrd," said Will rather grimly. "She would not forgive me for monopolising you."

Mr Byrd, Norrington was pleased to see, looked alarmed. Hardly surprising: if Elizabeth knew that one of her guests was courting death by his presence, her fury on his behalf would be matched only by her fury at him for attending. Astute of Will to introduce Mr Byrd to the Commodore first, so that the two of them could say truthfully that _that_ danger had been averted.

"Far be it from me," said Mr Byrd, extravagantly, "to distress the bride on her wedding day. Until later, Commodore Norrington." He made a slight, courtly bow, apparently oblivious to Will's glare.

"Until later," agreed Norrington, suppressing the urge to follow the two men through the crowd and witness the reunion.

* * *

As if that pirate ... as if _Mr Byrd's_ appearance had turned the tide, Norrington found that he was free of encumbrance and unexpectedly ready to enjoy himself. He drank more imported wine, and talked with the Governor about the new colonies, and with Mr White about the differences between the English tongue and the French.

"If a man has no word for something, how can he think of it?" asked Mr White, and without waiting for the Commodore's answer he span off into a diatribe about the inferiority of the French, as demonstrated in their spoken and written language.

Norrington listened, sipping champagne and nodding as though he agreed. He wondered what Mr White would say, were he to ask about a new language that nobody spoke, or if he talked of the void that had opened between him and the rest of the world. The schoolteacher would probably be appalled at Norrington's breach of manners.

For a while, when the dancing began, Norrington lost track of Mr Byrd. He even took a turn on the dance floor with Miss Hamilton, the vicar's ungainly ward, who trod on his feet and went crimson with shame. Mr Byrd was nowhere to be seen, either on the dance floor or at the back of the room, and Norrington was abruptly certain that he had driven the ... the other man away.

The dance ended, and he paid Miss Hamilton a pretty compliment that made her blush more. Here came Elizabeth, more radiant than ever.

"Mrs Turner," he said, bowing, "I wonder if you --" and then, because it was her wedding day, he changed the question, "if you will let me have this dance?"

With Elizabeth in his arms, however sedately, he could forget Mr Byrd for a few minutes. Even when Elizabeth smiled at him and thanked him for his clemency, he did not let himself think of anything except the necessity of a graceful reply. He could never admit that he was a willing accomplice: that Mr Byrd was anything other than a prosperous merchant who had, however improbably, befriended a blacksmith's apprentice.

Where was the man?

The dance, and the wine, and the concentrated shriek of the wedding guests, began to oppress Norrington. The garden door was open, and he stepped out into the cool evening air for a moment, to clear his head. The rain had stopped at sunset, and in the dim light the carefully-tended flowers of the Governor's garden were garlanded with diamonds and silver drops.

Norrington breathed deeply, aware that he was more than a little drunk. Perhaps, after all, he would go home. He had played his part --

"Nice evening, Commodore," said a familiar voice from the steps behind him.

Since no one could see him, Norrington smiled. "Mr Byrd," he said genially. "I trust you're enjoying the festivities."

"Delightful wedding," said Mr Byrd. He sounded no more drunk than before. "Plenty of wine. Music. Young ladies." He was standing beside Norrington now, and out of the corner of his eye the Commodore could see the gleam of gold teeth. "But what about you, Commodore? Dancing with the bride, eh?"

"There is nothing improper in my regard for Mrs Turner!" Norrington said heatedly, rather proud of himself for remembering that she was married now.

"Of course not," agreed Mr Byrd. "But things might have turned out so differently, eh?"

"You might have been hanged," Norrington reminded him caustically.

"Now, now, Commodore. None of that," said Mr Byrd, with a dismissive wave of the hands: his fingers brushed the braid on Norrington's chest. "It's pirates you hang, not respectable merchants come visiting to see their good friends on their wedding day."

Norrington chuckled. "True," he allowed.

"And you lost her," the other man went on, "and you loved her. I know how that feels."

"I --"

"And your beautiful ship all blown to smithereens. It wasn't my doing, nor my wish. I'm sorry for that, too."

Norrington felt as though he were about to be sick: but it was words that came out, were forced out, of him.

"I lost my men. They followed -- they died because of me. Because I didn't believe you. And none of it meant anything. It was all for n-nothing. It was all a waste. Ev-everything I --"

Norrington broke off, choking back the rest of it. It was almost dark now, and he couldn't read his companion's expression. The music from the ballroom sounded faint and far away, as though it came from another world. He supposed that it did.

"I'm sorry," he said hopelessly. "I shouldn't have --"

"I understand," said Sparrow. He was leaning towards Norrington: leaning too close, really, as though he meant to pick Norrington's pocket, or to whisper in his ear. He could feel the warmth radiating from the other man's skin, under all that brocade and silk and fine linen. "Really. As though you're storm-wracked at sea, with the mainsail carried away and a compass that doesn't point North, and you don't know --"

The noise from the wedding-party grew louder: someone must have propped open the door, or opened more windows. Mr Byrd swayed back abruptly, looking around for witnesses. He seemed to come to a decision.

"Let's go somewhere more private to speak of this."

Without thinking, Norrington said, "My quarters are --"

Mr Byrd shook his head. "I've taken a room at the Anchor," he said, "and I'd feel more comfortable there, if you take my meaning. Neutral territory, if you like." He was leaning towards Norrington again, and there was a note of anxiety in his voice: and something else. "I'll be gone tomorrow," said Mr Byrd, "and you'll have lost the chance." His eyes narrowed. "To speak of it."

Norrington was suddenly, inexplicably sure that it was not only conversation that was being offered. It was more shocking to realise that he welcomed the invitation. Just as his good manners spoke for him earlier, now his ... his self-interest, to put a polite name to that incredible surge of nameless want ... was speaking for him.

"We should take some of the wine," he heard himself say.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr Byrd, frowning, and suddenly Norrington wondered if it had all been a terrible mistake, a hallucination brought on by too many reverses: if John Byrd was, after all, merely what he seemed, a merchant-venturer with an unfortunate resemblance to an infamous pirate.

He was constructing an apology when Mr Byrd added, "The good stuff has gone already. Clever man, your Governor Swann: he's sending out the cheaper bottles now that his guests are half-cut. Fancy some rum, Commodore?"

* * *

Evading Elizabeth's eagle eye had not been easy, but somehow the two of them had managed it -- whether separately or together, Norrington did not know. It had been difficult enough to keep his footing on the slick cobbles of Port Royal's steep streets -- though his companion, reeling and tilting, had remained astonishingly upright -- and they had hardly spoken between leaving the Governor's residence and reaching the brightly-lit Anchor Inn. Norrington had kept his eyes down, refusing to look at any of the people abroad at this late hour. Though he was doing nothing wrong, he did not want to be noticed.

"I'm surprised that you've taken a room ashore," he said as they entered the inn. He was hardly drunk at all now, and wondered why he had thought this wise. The front room of the inn was crowded, and Norrington quelled an impulse to turn and flee: but instead of pushing through to the bar, Jack led him along the narrow passage that ran back towards the kitchens.

"Ah, but my lovely ship's far from here," he said, opening what looked to be a cupboard door. There was a staircase on the other side. "Far from your little guns and soldiers and the like. I left 'em to it: just dropped by to wish Will happy. Second floor, I'm afraid. This way."

The staircase was steep and smelt of vinegar. Jack's room was at the end of the landing, under the eaves. He opened the window to let in the cool air, and lit the lamp on the table.

"Sit down, Commodore," he invited, gesturing at a rickety wooden chair. "Or would you rather I didn't call you Commodore, eh?"

Norrington considered the question, hazily.

"I'm not sure who else to be," he confessed at last. "It's all ..." He had no idea how to finish the sentence, so he just shrugged.

"There's more to you than Commodore, mate," said Jack. "Or did they take away your name when they gave you that fancy bit of trimming?" He nodded at the epaulette on Norrington's coat.

"James," said Norrington, frowning at the pirate's confidence.

Jack Sparrow beamed at him. "Was hoping we'd be on first-name terms by the end of the evening," he said cheerfully, taking off the nondescript wig and hurling it quite violently into the corner of the room. "I've never understood," he confided, dropping into the other chair, "how you Navy types can stand to wear those things all day and all night."

Freed, his shambolic hair sprang slowly back to its usual wild disarray. Norrington watched it with fascination. Perhaps, after all, he was more drunk than he'd thought.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," he said slowly.

"Talking and drinking, James," said Jack. "Have some rum."

"All at sea with a broken compass," said Norrington, remembering. "There aren't ... I don't know the words. Not in English."

"Say it in Spanish, then. Say it in Sicilian. Say it --" Jack leant forward, pushing a beaker of rum towards him. "Say it in Swedish."

"I suppose you speak them all," said Norrington, staring into his rum.

"Only enough to get by, mate," Jack assured him. He was still leaning across the table, almost close enough to ... to touch. Norrington did not look up.

"It doesn't matter," said Norrington, rather thickly, after a while. He took a mouthful of rum to loosen his throat. "No one seems to understand me when I speak of it. Even when I'm speaking the same language."

"But you're not speaking the same language," said Jack. "You're using the same words, but they don't mean the same things any more. What does Miss Swann -- I beg your pardon, Mrs Turner -- know of an officer's care for his men? And Mr Turner should watch his step with that one. He hasn't got a clue about loving. Or liking. Might as well love a pirate."

Norrington frowned at him, and began to stand up.

"No, no!" exclaimed Jack, waving Norrington back down. "I meant _Elizabeth_. That girl's got pirate blood somewhere. Wait and see."

"You may be right," Norrington conceded wearily. He pulled the chair back and sat down again, sideways to the table, stretching his legs in front of him. "And yet I did love her," he added softly. "Even though she loved another."

Jack's expression was solemn. "I know what it's like to lose what you love," he said.

"Are you suggesting I should wait ten years?"

"I'm not even suggesting you should wait ten minutes, mate."

Jack picked up the rum bottle again and reached for the beaker, but Norrington put his hand over it. "No more."

"All part of the deal, James," said Jack. This close, when Norrington looked, he could see faint, damning smudges of black around the pirate's dark eyes. "This is the part where I ply you with rum until you're pliable."

There were several responses to that, and Norrington did not know how to say any of them.

"Cat got your tongue?" said Jack, grinning: then, at Norrington's blank, dazed look, "I'll just check."

If anyone had ever asked him -- had ever dared to ask him -- if he wanted to kiss a man, Norrington would have answered 'no': answered with some heat, too, and with indignation that anyone might suspect him of such urges. And yet he was kissing Jack with heat and desire and lust, opening his mouth at once and tasting gold, and realising that he had been wondering about the taste of gold for months.

Somehow, without releasing him, Jack had come around to Norrington's side of the table. He was leaning on the back of the chair, draping himself across Norrington's shoulders, kissing as assuredly as if they'd done this many times before. His fingers were working their way up under Norrington's wig and casting it aside, and Norrington suddenly wanted to feel Jack's hands on several other parts of his body: all at once, if possible, and if not then, oooh yes, he could work his way downwards ...

With delight, he realised that he was free to do the same to Jack. To slide his hands under the beautiful brocade coat and feel the rapid beat of Jack's heart: to sit more nearly upright in the chair so that Jack could sit in his lap, curling closer, the weight and heat of him exactly what Norrington hadn't even known he'd wanted, exactly what he'd never found the words for.

He had never been quite this close to Jack Sparrow before (he smiled into the kiss, thinking how few people he had been this close to) but he remembered, from that first meeting on the quay, the smell of wet hair and rum and sweat. Today, under the fine new clothes, Jack's skin smelt clean and faintly spicy, as though he had been eating rich food. Norrington thought of Jack naked, washing himself: then he thought of tasting Jack's skin, and made a small wordless noise.

Jack broke the kiss and muttered something in his ear. His hair was tickling Norrington's throat, and his breath burnt.

"What?" Norrington managed.

"Too dressed," said Jack, grinning. "Unless you'd rather just kiss, Commodore?"

The way he said 'Commodore', swallowing the vowels and lingering on the consonants, was almost enough to distract Norrington. Almost enough. He tried to remember the last time he'd had anything more than a kiss from someone he hadn't paid for the privilege: but it was impossible to think of anyone else when Jack Sparrow was so dangerously, deliciously close and warm and inviting.

"James?" said Jack. His hand, on Norrington's shoulder, stilled for a moment, and his dark gaze was unnervingly sober.

"Jack," said Norrington thickly. "I ..."

Damn it, he was forgetting every word he knew. What came out instead, as he leant forward to taste the dry skin of Jack's throat, was a kind of growl. Jack's breath hitched, and his hands were abruptly busy at the collar of Norrington's shirt, almost pressing into the hollow beside the vein.

The sense of common purpose invigorated Norrington. His mind was full, now, of vague, aroused thoughts about what they might do besides kissing: nothing he had words for, but he thought that after all they might manage without words. He pushed Jack off his lap for long enough to get them both upright, propped against each other. Being so much taller than Jack made him feel for a moment as though he were kissing a girl, but no girl ever kissed like Jack Sparrow, biting and soothing and exploring and invading his mouth. He got his hands under the front of the red brocade coat and began to peel it from Jack's shoulders, and Jack writhed against him in a way that Norrington wanted to feel under him: on the bed, over there: naked.

He took a harsh, shuddering breath. He'd never thought of doing this, never known it was something he could crave as much as he did. Had never even kissed Elizabeth, though there was a girl at the Ship who looked a little like her, by candlelight. He'd used to imagine undressing Elizabeth: or, no, simply setting his hands on her clothed form and feeling the heat of her body through silk brocade. The fabric of Jack's coat was much heavier than anything a lady would wear. His skin was much hotter than Elizabeth's. There was something about thinking of Elizabeth while Jack kissed him so messily, beard-bristle and all, that made Norrington want to laugh, but then his shirt was undone and Jack's hot hands were on his bare skin, and he choked on the laughter.

The buttons on Jack's coat clattered when it hit the floor, and Norrington thought distantly about picking it up, but the buttons on his shirt were surprisingly easy to unfasten, and Jack's chest was fascinating. He paused impatiently, almost growling again, so that Jack could finish stripping his own coat from him: then Jack was pressed up against him, breath all hot and ragged, undoing his shirt and sliding his hot dry palms over Norrington's ribs.

Jack's hair still smelt of sweat and smoke and the sea when Norrington slid his face against Jack's, tonguing the black pearl that swung from his earlobe. He pulled Jack closer, excited by the unyieldingness of Jack's body against his own: by the way that Jack's muscles strained against his own, and oh _God_ by the realisation that it was Jack's hard cock pushing against his thigh.

He'd forgotten which way the bed was, but somehow they fell onto it, still tangled together. Norrington kicked his shoes off, sighing with relief, and pulled Jack on top of him. Jack's tongue was in his mouth again, teasing and insistent, and Jack's thumb was circling his nipple in a way that made him think of women's breasts, and then think of nothing but the way that Jack's muscular, almost hairless chest felt against his own.

"Jack," he began hoarsely, when Jack's mouth freed his and moved to his throat.

Jack bit him hard enough to make him arch up off the bed. "Pirate," he said, grinning.

It might as well have been a challenge, and Norrington was feeling reckless. He pushed the heel of his palm, hard, over the front of Jack's breeches, and felt his own cock harden more when Jack swore and ground against him.

"Are these your clothes, _pirate_?" he murmured against Jack's ear.

"Why d'you ask, Commodore? Reckon they're too fine for me?" Jack never seemed to stop moving. He was lying on his side now, one leg hooked over Norrington's, industriously unbuckling his belt. In the lamplight, his eyes looked quite black, and his lips were swollen with kissing.

"Not at all," said Norrington, stroking slowly over the curve of Jack's hip, enjoying the way that Jack pressed back into the caress. "But they're too tight. And they're in the way."

Jack said nothing, just raised his eyebrows and smiled. In the next instant his wicked fingers were wrapping around Norrington's cock, and Norrington groaned helplessly and thrust into the pirate's hand.

It felt so good that for a moment he forgot he could reciprocate. Then the desire to undo Jack, the way that Jack was undoing him, returned, and he unbuttoned Jack's breeches and found Jack's cock fitting into his hand as familiarly as if it were his own.

"Mmm, _James_," Jack murmured appreciatively, and the simplicity of the situation -- the unambiguous desire between them, the sweet ache of his erect cock in Jack's hand, the slick slide of Jack's against his palm -- made James laugh, breathlessly, into Jack's tangled hair.

Jack wriggled closer, so that his cock touched James's when he thrust, and they kissed again, slowly and wetly. James tightened his grasp and swept his thumb around the flare of Jack's cock, and the pirate writhed against him, head going back. James could feel the other man's climax approaching as though it were his own, but it was still a shock when Jack jerked against him and he felt him come, hot and wet and slick over his hand and his stomach. Without any thought, as though it were natural, he raised his wet hand to his lips, and as soon as he tasted it he was coming too, gasping and curling against Jack, Jack's seed bitter-sweet on his lips and tongue, Jack saying his name like a caress ...

For a long minute James could do nothing but pant for breath, vaguely horrified at the idea of having just spent himself in the company of a man -- a _pirate_ \-- but surprisingly comfortable with the simple pleasure of Jack's hand on his cock, Jack's seed on his fingers and in his mouth.

He had an absurd impulse to cry, but kissing was one thing and weeping quite another. Instead, he buried his head in the curve of Jack's shoulder, holding him loosely, and mouthed the warm, sweaty skin.

Jack's arm lay comfortably against his shoulders, and Jack's heartbeat was strong and steady under his skin, but James could feel the tension in him. It would be foolish of Jack not to be ready to flee, after all: useless for James to try to hold on to him.

He held on anyway, and smiled against Jack's shoulder.

"What's that?" murmured Jack lazily.

James pulled back enough to see his face. "A bird in the hand," he said, tightening his arm a little and grinning.

Jack chuckled and shifted closer, and James was surprised all over again by how delightful it felt to have Jack half-naked next to him.

"I never knew," he began: but there were too many ways to end the sentence, and he faltered.

"Time you found out, then," said Jack, sliding his hand up the back of James's neck. "Time you put James first for a change, instead of your Commodorely self."

James laughed, and stretched out under the caress of Jack's fingers. "Don't want to think about being Commodore," he said sleepily. "Not until tomorrow."

"Anyone would think it was treason to kiss, the way you go on," said Jack. "We're not going to start a revolution with this, you know."

"Revolution enough, Jack," said James, alarmed at the shakiness of his own voice. "You're a man. A pirate. I --"

"Your problem, mate," said Jack, propping himself up on one elbow and leaning so close that James could hardly focus on him, "is that you don't know how to ask for what you want."

"I don't know the right --" James began, fascinated by the intensity in Jack Sparrow's eyes and the curve of his smile. Then Jack was kissing him again, quite demandingly, and his hands were roaming along the loosened waist of James's breeches, making him twist and shiver.

"Where I come from," he broke off to tell James, "we call this a kiss."

James growled and took hold of Jack's face again, pulling him close and pushing his tongue against that smile, feeling Jack's mouth open for him and Jack's own wicked tongue trace lines along the insides of his lips. And perhaps, if this was what kissing felt like, he never _had_ known what the word meant.

Somewhere between the kiss and the rum and the feel of Jack's hands fanning the languorous afterglow, he realised that he'd learnt something. Not only that he wanted this: something new.

Jack pulled back at last, breathing heavily: and James said, "Please don't stop."

"Better," said Jack, grinning from ear to ear. "Now, ask me nicely and I'll --"

James took hold of him and returned the kiss, with interest, until he had Jack writhing against him like something from an erotic dream. "Do you ever stop talking?" he said at last.

"Only when you make me," said Jack, with an amiable leer. "Now, you were about to tell me what you wanted."

"Oh, I've a better idea," said James, running his hands over Jack's scarred, tanned skin. He bent his neck to taste the crook of Jack's elbow, and made him writhe.

"What's that?" managed Jack, gasping.

"You tell _me_ what I want, Jack." James smiled, and stretched, and felt the twitch of his own returning erection. "Tell me what to ask for. Teach me how to ask."

Some time in the middle of the night, with the lamp guttering and James still convinced that Jack had sucked every bone from his body, they talked about Barbossa and the curse. (It would be days before James began to wonder if Jack had needed to speak of Barbossa's mutiny as much as James had needed to speak of blood-spattered bone in the moonlight). And just before dawn, with the beginning of a headache being drawn away by Jack's hands on his neck, James told him about the day he'd realised that Elizabeth had become beautiful. But for most of the night they did not speak at all: not, at any rate, in words.

* * *

When Norrington awoke, after far too little sleep, he expected to find himself alone. He lay with his eyes closed, remembering that he had his dress uniform and no money, and wondering how he would deal with the innkeeper, never mind the rumours, if Jack -- if Sparrow had not paid for the room.

But he could hear breathing, and even without that he would have been aware that he was not alone after all: that he was being watched.

"James?"

Hearing Jack Sparrow's voice made him want to smile, but he fought back the impulse, and the images the voice conjured, and did not respond.

"James?" said Jack again, after a moment. "Wanted to bid you farewell." He sounded so serious that Norrington gave up the pretence and opened his eyes.

It was Mr Byrd who sat, straight-backed, in the rickety wooden chair, looking at him: the wig (slightly the worse for wear) quite concealing his riotous hair, his collar and cuffs limp but clean, his person decently shod and buttoned. It was remarkably easy to imagine that this was the dark-eyed, well-spoken merchant-venturer he had met at the wedding yesterday. Mr Byrd's mouth, though, was redder than Norrington remembered: from kissing, he thought, and suddenly he wanted to kiss Jack Sparrow again.

Instead, taking his cue from the solemnity of the other man's expression, he said, "It was good to speak with you."

"Aye," said Mr Byrd, and then scowled slightly at his own slip. "I mean, yes. A pleasure, Commodore. I hope we can meet again."

"I hope so too," said Norrington, stretching, and taking an unkind pleasure in the way that Mr Byrd's eyes rested on the thin sheet that covered him.

But it would not be safe for either of them if Mr Byrd lingered in Port Royal.

"You'd best be on your way," he said heavily. "And I'm sure your ... your business will carry you far from here."

"My business is unlikely to bring me to Port Royal in the foreseeable future," agreed Mr Byrd, so cheerfully that Norrington felt his smile begin to fade. "But my pleasure?" He bowed and spread his hands. "Who can say?"

He was gone before Norrington could do more than stare.

Norrington dropped his head in his hands and chuckled helplessly. He could feel the places on his body where Jack's mouth had been, last night. He ached, and he wanted a bath, and a drink of water, and a good night's sleep. He needed time to think about the way his world had changed. He felt remarkably cheerful.

The door swung open again without warning.

"And you can owe me for the room," said Jack Sparrow, blowing him a most piratical kiss.

The door closed again an instant before Norrington's pillow hit.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs White's ignorance of naval matters comes from Jack Aubrey's future mother-in-law, courtesy of Patrick O'Brian: the 'Mr Byrd' alias appears by permission of **the mad fangirl**: this fic wouldn't have happened without **mimesere**'s Hallelujah songvid.


End file.
